


Breathe Sweetheart

by The_Tevinter_Biscuit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anxiety, Comfort/Angst, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kissing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 08:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8049088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Tevinter_Biscuit/pseuds/The_Tevinter_Biscuit
Summary: Hawke soothes Fenris through a panic attack.





	Breathe Sweetheart

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write this for a little while, only a short drabble. I used my own experiences to write about this topic but everyone experiences these sorts of things differently!
> 
> Enjoy :)

Sharp.

Jagged.

Breath pushing through a tiny hole in the blockage in his throat. He can’t catch enough of it, drink in enough oxygen to survive. There are hands clawing at his throat, pushing down, putting down a wild animal. His own? Danarius? Cold eyes staring holes into his flesh. His master’s sick grin.

There’s an arm around his shoulders. It doesn’t feel real against his skin. A dream, an illusion, his own mind punishing him for thinking that he could ever be more than nothing, more than a slave. His own body is rejecting a flow of steady breathing to keep him alive. He’s sure that he’ll pass out any second now, the fog in his mind is telling him so. The corners of his eyes are going blurry. His body wants to escape.  

Release. Freedom.

The room is spinning; it won’t stay still. He couldn’t stand, if he did he was sure he would fall. His legs are numb and fragile. Darkness creeps into his vision. He’s going to pass out. Gone. Unconscious. Vulnerable.

They’re laughing at him. That’s why his head is pounding. Everything is closing in on him.

Danarius is coming for him. He has his hands on him, everywhere. There wasn’t a place left unsullied. He reached in his body and tore him from the inside out, destroyed his mind. He didn’t know who he once was. It felt like yesterday he had his clammy hands around his throat. He’d never kill him. He couldn’t.

But it cut off his breathing.

“Fenris,” Hawke’s voice is one he can recognise. Next to him, close, embracing him. Concerned eyes, not cold. Fenris was now overtly aware of the fingers rubbing in small circles on his back. Hawke’s fingers, he told himself, it’s only Hawke. His eyes flicker to look at him. He’s not Danarius.

Danarius is dead, he resided in a puddle of his own blood somewhere.

He’s blinking back the tears. No, they’re running away. Running down his cheeks. Saliva is pooling in his mouth as he gasps for more air.

The beating of his heart is obnoxious. It’s banging in his chest, his throat, out of his mouth. There’s fists around it. Tighter. Squeezing more to push it down into his stomach. It churns, his gut is twisting and threatening to bring up the contents. Could it even make it through the blockage in his throat?

“Breathe,” It’s Hawke again. He wants to laugh but it only comes out as a sob. The tears are dripping from his chin. What does it look like he’s trying to do? He’s gasping like a fish out of water. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Okay?”

It seems like a simple instruction.

A shaky breath in from his nose.

An exhale out from his mouth.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

His hands are trembling. He chokes on another sob.

Hawke. Hawke. Hawke.

When Hawke’s hand grabs his, he realises he can’t feel it. The tingles encircle his fingers, chasing each other up his arms. It’s a blissful numbness he wishes he could feel rather than the clamp on his lungs. Hawke is squeezing his hand; he can see him do it. There’s a pressure. His eyebrows furrow. It’s a distant feeling, as if not his own hand.

He’s pathetic.

“Take your time,” Hawke tells him. He wiggles his fingers in Hawke’s grasp, absent-mindedly missing the feeling of circulation.

In.

Out.

Gradually, it gets easier. Breathing becomes simpler. Someone is knocking away the blockage in his throat with an axe. He’s not going to pass out. Hawke is still there as he begins to settle. He watches him as hypoventilation turns into crying. Fenris leans against Hawke, face buried against his chest. His hand is still squeezing his. The arm around him tightens when he sobs again.

He cries like a child missing their mother. Childish, relentless. It’s making his shirt damp.

However, Hawke holds him as he does. He doesn’t say anything more, just holds him through his trembling and rubs circles on his back. It becomes oddly soothing. Fenris sniffles, still gulping in the deep breaths of air.

Shakily, he lifts his head to look at Hawke. His eyes are still full of worry and affection. Fenris wets his dry lips. His pride tells him he should move out of his grasp but everything else wills him to stay where he feels safe, in Hawke’s arms. It’s quiet now, his breaths are silent and he swallows down his cries.

Hawke reaches to cup his face, still squeezing his hand as he wills the blood flow back into it. His hand is rough, calloused, but it feels gentle on his cheek. A thumb swipes under his eye, removing the wetness. Fenris blinks quickly, staring at him with fearful green eyes.

“Better?” he asks.

Fenris can barely recognise his own hoarse, cracking voice when he replies; “Yes…”

Carefully, he pries Hawke’s hand away from his face and release his hold on his hand. He shuffles back, determined to prove that he’s okay. He angrily wipes any tears with his palms. Hawke is watching him, making sure he doesn’t panic again. This wasn’t the first time this had happened and he had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last. Yet he still hoped it would be, that every time would be the last.

“Coming back to bed?” Hawke says.

Now he’s aware of the soft sheets underneath him. Comfort. Warmth. Hawke.

He nods, allowing Hawke to guide him back under the covers. They face each other and Fenris feels himself relax a little. Hawke watches for Fenris’s reaction as he wraps an arm around his waist and draws him in. Fenris is receptive to the touch, curling himself in and leaning against him.

“May I kiss you?” Hawke asks. Fenris looks up at him.

“Yes,” he mumbles, allowing Hawke to press their lips together.

It’s gentle, soft, tender. Their lips move together slowly. Hawke is cautious, squeezing his waist lightly as he pulls him in for more. He worries about taking his breath away. Fenris pulls away when he feels himself grow breathless, a brief jolt of panic, but Hawke’s face soothes it.

“I love you,” Hawke tells him, kissing his forehead before Fenris nuzzles into the base of his neck.

He can feel his own heartbeat again. It races but he does not panic.

Safety.

“I am yours,” he replies, eyes fluttering shut.


End file.
